Poetic Justice
by Tempestt Londyn
Summary: The Blacks prayed Andromeda's troubles dead the day she married. Drabble-esque. One-shot.


**_Disclaimer/Author's Note: The Harry Potter series is not my original work; thus, I profit from nothing. The following is strictly for entertainment purposes. I originally intended this piece for Valentine's Day and, well ... here we are. _**

* * *

Three letters destroyed their night.

One name. One _nickname _destroyed it all.

_Ted … _

There was no bigger insult to a Lestrange man than taking care of another before himself.

Rabastan was no fool. Andromeda was not sinless but bribery and threats (mostly threats) by the mad hatter of a matriarch kept a hush on her flaws. He had skeletons like everyone else, naturally; but prior interracial experimentation did not make it acceptable for his mind to wander (it never dwelled on inferior persons) and it certainly should not have birthed the liberal notion that lovemaking would go interrupted if one cried out for a former flame.

Maybe it was her idea of a nightcap.

Andromeda swore he had misheard and begged for Veritaserum. But Rabastan was burning and he wanted Andromeda to burn too. Veritaserum was given only after lips were swollen and fists sparked fire in her cheeks.

Rabastan's ire stretched by the seconds, extinguishing his already limited interest in any explanation, however truthful, she dared to give. Andromeda's tears did not neutralize the situation - if anyone deserved to cry, it was him. _Him_, who moved Heaven and Earth for this woman, not wanting to see such a beauty's life ruined on behalf of youthful frivolity.

Why, then, did horror ruin her gorgeous face when he returned fifteen minutes before the clock struck midnight?

He'd left, kissing her bruised body, claiming to be furious with himself and needing to clear his head. He told her to clean up, to dress in her finest gown and prepare for their ball.

And a celebration they were having thought it may not have been the kind she anticipated.

The gramophone played, with a flick of his wand. Chandelier shards littered the floors and Andromeda ran from room to room, too weak to Disapparate. Really, Rabastan had no idea why she played coy. She knew his line of work quite well, frantically helping to wash blood from his hands on numerous occasions.

So, why was tonight any different? He was still her _husband_. What did matted, frayed hair matter? What did crimson blotches on a tuxedo matter?

It was no difference. Rabastan was the same as he'd always been.

House elves screamed. He jumped over two, chasing after his wife, thinking of a prying Regulus pulling him aside after one meeting, gleeful as he sang, "Nine months wearing your ring and she'll never be yours, dummy."

And she longed for a _Mudblood_, not midway through the passion ….

She compared him to a _Mudblood _….

Rabastan had been a dunce, ignoring that warning. He should have nailed the little bugger to the wall and gotten answers but he _trusted _his wife because Andromeda gave him no reason _not _to.

Who'd believe behind the cooking, the cleaning, the doe eyes and the radiant smile still lay a dormant appetite to recapture promiscuity?

Of course, there was no proof of an extramarital affair. He had not asked her that before leaving the Manor.

But Andromeda made a fool of herself asking for truth serum for the clear potion confirmed her a liar. He misheard _nothing_. At any rate, being the butt of every Death Eater's joke simply wouldn't do.

Reaching the base of the stairs, Rabastan yanked the hem of Andromeda's copper gown without forethought. She met the stairs loudly, choking on violent sobs as he cradled her in his arms. She was so bloody selfish, wailing for her own loss - if one could call it that - and not in repentance of offending her spouse.

"The festivities are over, darling. Aren't you tired of dancing?"

The token of his affection - a bloody, severed ring finger - ran underneath the dress, tracing the length of her body, smoothing the scars.

"Shhhhh," he hummed, kissing the crown of her disturbed, brunette head. "The wine is gone. Now, _now _... we can have it _all_."

Finally, Rabastan lifted the bottom and allowed the digit to penetrate.

She fainted, with a shudder, just as sounds from their most peculiar wedding present - a Swan Lake vinyl - faded.

"Happy Anniversary, Andromeda."

_**Fin**_**.**


End file.
